Now You See It All and What Is Real
by fangirlgonewild
Summary: plays with 4.10 The Con Man in the Meth Lab. Brennan avoids seeing Booth because of Jared


Brennan stood over the lighted table, cool eyes taking in the bones laid out anatomically before her. She was missing something that was right in front of her, she could just feel it.

_No,_ Brennan corrected herself, _I am missing something because it exists and I have not yet observed it._

She sighed, reaching out to lift one of the ribs, squinting at its surface through the large magnification lens.

"Bren?" Angela's voice drifted through the lab, concern mixed with irritation.

"I'm down here, Angela," she responded absently, placing the bone back on the table and reaching out to lift up another. Halting at the sudden movement on the edges of her vision, Brennan turned to find her friend striding across the floor on colorful high heels, a dry cleaner's bag draped over one arm.

Brennan held out a hand as Angela approached the table, "I would prefer that you not bring that onto the platform. It could contaminate the remains and make identification and observation more complicated."

Angela rolled her eyes, lifting Brennan's notes from a nearby stool and replacing them with the bag. She glanced over the top sheet, pursing her lips and nodding.

"Oh, yeah. I'll bet that party clothes are really going to influence your analysis of a "'young male,' whose 'accompanying accessories indicate alive in late 1700s.'" Angela moved to stand next to her, putting a hand on her arm, "Come on, Bren. He's been gone for a while. Maybe not as long as the little Indian kid from last week, or the English knight from the week before…but still, a while."

"'Indian kid' is not a classification that I am comfortable with, nor is—"

"Stop, just stop. What I am trying to say, albeit with less precise terminology than yours, is that you have thrown yourself into limbo case after limbo case. All of which, I might add, are strictly museum work that don't even come close to remotely needing to open any kind of investigation."

"This is true, but I fail to see the issue. This lab has an obligation to the Jeffersonian as well as the F.B.I.," Brennan noted, taking the papers from Angela and moving around the table to examine the ribs from a new angle.

"You are avoiding Booth."

Brennan's head snapped up, "I am not."

"You are too."

"This is a childish discussion that will result in neither of us changing opinions."

Angela frowned, pointing at Brennan and stepping around the table to confront her, "That. That right there. You are taking cases that don't involve the F.B.I. and you are retreating back into yourself."

Startled, Brennan stared openly at her friend, "Angela—"

"What's more, I think you know exactly what you're doing. Sweets thinks that this is some sort of coping mechanism, but I think you're doing it on purpose."

"You think I'm deliberately not working with my partner?"

"Yes. And if no one else will tell you that it's a crappy thing to do, I will. It's _mean_, Bren. And you know better than to do it, too."

The two women stood facing one another, hands on hips, unmoving. Finally, Angela shook her head, clearly exasperated.

"That," she indicated with a nod, "is your dress for the benefit tonight. Which started twenty minutes ago. Cam sent me to remind you that attendance is mandatory, and could you please attempt to be sociable?"

She turned, almost-stomping down the platform stairs, leaving Brennan alone with her thoughts.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Brennan entered the atrium via the small side door that lead to the laboratories some twenty minutes later, hoping to slip in unnoticed. She recalled the days of college parties, figuring she had finally managed to arrive fashionably late, the timing of which she had never been able to calculate perfectly.

Of course, she realized as Cam waved her over to an assembled group, the objective of arriving later than everyone else was to attract attention.

"And this," Cam was saying, "is our own Dr. Temperance Brennan, whom you may know from her successful series of novels, based partially on her own experiences as a forensic anthropologist." She pulled Brennan in, whispering, "You are late, Dr. Brennan. We've discussed the importance of these functions before—"

"Dr. Brennan?" A young blonde woman interrupted, "I am such a fan, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions…"

Brennan took a deep breath and glanced at Cam, then nodded as she replied, "I would love to speak with you about my work, perhaps over some dinner?"

To her surprise, her dinner companions seemed relatively intelligent and genuinely interested in anthropology. Brennan had relaxed, chatting openly with her table and finding herself having a relatively pleasant evening. One of the men subtly indicated an interest in her, which she had prepared herself to rebuff, but his conversation charmed her—and Cam's warning to be sociable rang in her ears. So, when he asked her to dance, she accepted.

The dance was slow, a waltz that afforded ample time to converse on the floor. Brennan kept the tone deliberately light, asking basic questions she could forget his answers to immediately. She smiled politely—she was having a good time, but this exercise was hardly forming a lasting bond between them.

Brennan excused herself when the music faded, turning to find a drink table when Jared Booth stepped in front of her.

"Temperance," he said, by way of greeting her.

"Jared," she replied, suddenly on guard. Her entire body felt electrified, she could feel her muscles tense and her heart rate pick up. "What are you doing here?"

_Calm down,_ she instructed herself, bewildered by her own reaction. This wasn't attraction, or fear…but it was something, something she couldn't quite place.

"Seeley brought me," Jared said, taking her hand and leading her back onto the floor. He put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the slow movements.

Annoyed at his presumption, but unwilling to cause a scene, she complied, hissing, "Is this band incapable of playing a piece that is not a waltz?"

Jared laughed softly, "They probably figured that most of the people here can't dance to much else." He paused before continuing, his tone becoming serious, "Look, Temperance, I wanted to apologize for some things that I said—or did. I didn't really respect your opinion of my brother, or your relationship with him."

"My relationship with Booth is none of your concern."

"But it is, I mean, he's my brother and you are his partner…it's complicated, and I didn't think about that…before. I mean, when you shove someone off a stool, it kind of wakes them up, you know?" His smile was genuine, almost affectionate.

"I accept your apology," Brennan said, diplomatically, "Thank you."

"So, is it too early to ask for a second chance?"

Confused, she looked up at him, brow furrowing as she repeated, "A second chance?"

"Yeah, you know. Something simple, like dinner," he dropped his voice and whispered conspiratorially, "Normally I wouldn't move in so fast, but you look pretty amazing tonight and I'm thinking I have some competition."

But Brennan wasn't listening anymore, because she had finally caught sight of the one person she _had_ been striving to avoid. Booth was leaning against a column, talking with Hodgins. He looked bored and out-of-place, and she knew that, any other time, he would have spent the evening making fun of the men who flirted with her, rescuing her with an offer to dance at the last possible second. He snuck a look at the dance floor, scanning the couples and locking eyes with her.

_Shame_.

She knew what the missing something was now.

Naming it only intensified the feeling.

Embarrassment hit her in waves, giant swells that forced her to stop moving, jarring Jared out-of-step. She dropped her arm from his shoulder and walked off the dance floor, beyond the crowd, and out the side door, ignoring everyone in her path.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Brennan rushed along the hallway, hearing the click-clack, click-clack of her heels echo off the solid floor and walls. She reached her office and halted abruptly, leaning against the windowed wall, tipping her head back against the cool surface as she struggled to regain her composure.

Angela was right, of course, Brennan _had_ known that she didn't want to see Booth. She had gone into limbo and pulled boxes that wouldn't require his services or expertise in any way. Brennan had avoided his phone calls, demanding that the interns screen her lines so she could concentrate on her work. Brennan had told Sweets that she needed time to catch up on her cases for the Jeffersonian, that the fewer interruptions she experienced, the sooner she could return to the F.B.I. She'd known he would repeat the message to Booth, to gauge his reaction, if for no other reason.

Brennan never asked if Booth had called, didn't know if he'd come by, hadn't asked Sweets or Cam or anyone how he was.

She wanted to know—then and now.

Brennan wandered through her lab, winding up in her exact refuge from earlier in the evening. On the platform, leaning over her current project, and she still couldn't see anything.

What she could now see, what she did now know, was that she hadn't wanted—hadn't been able to see Booth (the one that counted, not that other one) because she was ashamed.

_Focus, Brennan,_ she demanded. But her thoughts wandered.

The victim's x-rays showed no significant fractures or breaks that burial and decomposition couldn't account for. She never should have agreed to attend Jared's function as his date. The skull was in remarkable shape, with no evidence of bleeding in the brain. She could have stopped Jared from kissing her, but she hadn't. The feet showed evidence of wear, as if he had walked long distances in poor conditions, but this would have been a common problem. She had betrayed Booth. Kissing Jared was betraying Booth—she had known it, she had ignored it, and now it was poisoning her mind. She couldn't really identify how it was a betrayal, or really why it was bothering her, at least not rationally. But human beings are irrational, too. Even her.

And how she felt was factual and real enough to her own self, even if not to her own mind.

The platform chirped, and Brennan swung around to see Booth half-jogging up the stairs. She knew she looked flushed, caught and cornered.

"Bones, hey. Look, are you okay?" Booth glanced back in the direction of the party, "I'm sorry, I don't know what he said to you, he won't tell me—"

Brennan cut him off, "Jared apologized to me for something, Booth, it was simple enough," she paused, unsure how to proceed, "He asked me to dinner, too," she added, as an afterthought.

Booth nodded, stepping back and glancing away from her. He looked hurt for a split-second, but she could see him shove the emotion aside.

"Crowded party, huh? Kind of dull."

"It was more enjoyable than I thought," she answered honestly, feeling awkward and exposed in his presence. She returned her attention to the man on the table, giving her hands something to do.

"So, is this what Cam has you all tied up with?" Booth said, indicating the bones before her as he leaned against the railing, "Identifying really, really old, dead people?"

"It's taking some time," Brennan replied evasively.

"Anything I could, you know, help with?"

She looked up, into his face. He looked so eager to please, so willing to be of service.

She didn't deserve him, her partner.

"Booth, I—"

"I know, I know. You don't really need me on this one. And I don't want to be a…an interruption, or a distraction…"

Now they were both talking at once, trying to get the words out.

"I never meant that you were an interruption, I just—"

"I haven't seen you in a while, and I—"

"--didn't want to see you."

"--really missed you."

Her words sunk in, and Booth swallowed hard, his cheeks coloring.

"Oh," he said, "well, then, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And you are. So, I'll leave you to it, then."

Brennan intercepted him as he started toward the stairs, planting herself in front of him and putting a gloved hand on his chest. Booth wouldn't meet her eyes, and she mentally berated herself.

"Stop, Booth, I was unclear," Brennan turned her hand over, gesturing for him to sit. Stripping off her gloves, she bit her lip and collected her courage.

"I should not have gone on a date with your brother. That crosses the line of our professional relationship and redefines what we are to one another. For that, I apologize. It has been bothering me for the last few weeks, and I didn't know what to say to you about it. So, I didn't say anything, and I created an environment where I wouldn't have to say anything."

She glanced at Booth, who was watching her pace with dark eyes. He nodded, "Okay. Apology accepted."

Brennan shook her head, "That's not all. The date, it felt…wrong. From accepting the invitation, to allowing him to kiss me," she could see Booth shift, she had made him uncomfortable, but she _had_ to be honest, she just _had_ to, "it was wrong. Not in a way that I can explain. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, I can get that," he said evenly.

"And I saw you tonight, and I knew I had to tell you. And I knew that I was ashamed, of what I'd done. And it was too much to think about. So, I came here."

There was a long pause that stretched between them. Then, his expression shifted slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"What, Booth?"

"Of course you came here. This is where you think."

"Not today, it's not. I can't seem to identify this boy," she said, "Or his cause of death."

"Tell me what you know about him," Booth said, rising to stand next to her.

"He is young, maybe twenty-two or twenty-three years of age. Lived sometime in the late 1700s, Hodgins' analysis was put on hold for the function tonight, so I don't know when exactly. His feet are worn…" she trailed off, squinting at one of the vertebra.

"He sounds like a foot soldier to me," Booth said easily, following her gaze, "What is it?"

"This vertebra is nicked," Brennan said, "as if his back was sliced open with a knife, or a bayonet of some kind."

"Ha!" Booth grinned, "Soldier it is. See, I can be helpful."

Brennan glanced at him, standing just a little too close to her.

"That conclusion is not confirmed, and I also would have reached it eventually. I should have reached it sooner, but I was distracted by guilt. Under normal circumstances, I would have seen that nick—" she stopped, tilted her head, and acquiesced, "All right, I admit. Without your insight, I may never have reached that conclusion."

Booth took her by the hand, still smiling, and twirled her around.

"There you go, Bones, case closed. So, can we work together again now?"

"The case is _not_ closed yet. And yes, I no longer feel upset about what happened with Jared."

Brennan found herself unable to catch Booth's rhythm, and she stumbled over his foot. As Booth steadied her, she pointed out, "Though Jared does have far more grace as a dance partner."

"Come on, Bones, I caught you, didn't I?" His tone was light, but she caught the annoyance at her words.

"Yes, you did. And I must admit, of the two Booths, I like you much better."

"And of all the squints, I like you the best. Come on, Bones, let's go back to the party and see how many of those old donor guys ask you to dance before we leave…"


End file.
